The Minor Fall and the Major Lift
by sailormade
Summary: Bravo Team. They're all around you now. Touching you, talking to you—you don't know how to convey that you can't hear them. You can't hear anything. Sonny is the most frantic of them all, stroking your hair and touching your face, barking at Trent Sawyer while Jason flags down an ambulance. / Coda to episode s2e17, "Paradise Lost." Mentions of Clay/Stella and Clay/Brian.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **My first foray in SEAL Team. Before I post the long, multi-chapter fic I have planned, I thought I'd post this quick 2nd POV experiment that I scribbled down after tonight's episode. (I promise that the long, multi-chapter fic is written in regular ole' 3rd POV, haha. Like I said, this 2nd POV oneshot is just an experiment/me playing around with language and style). Lemme' know your thoughts and suggestions and ideas and all that fun stuff. luv u babes. [insert heart emoji here]

* * *

Your name is Clay Spencer. You're an _almost_ twenty six year old Navy Seal, your favorite band is Def Leppard, and you know abandonment and loss more intimately than you know the depths of your own heart.

It all began with your father, Ash Spencer. He doesn't want you. He never has. You're less than ten years old when Ash decides to throw you away, discard you like trash or an ailing old dog in need of euthanization. When you feel the sharp, cold sting of loss, you're only a child.

_Daddy doesn't love you. Daddy is gone._

You gave Ash Spencer all that you could — what little free time you were allotted as a DEVGRU Operator, your hard-earned money when his bills were overdue, your self respect and worth, your hope for a soft epilogue when your time in the teams came to an end: blue eyed babies, white picket fences, Tier One brothers to reminisce with. He laughed at you, told you that your dreams were naive and that you weren't enough.

_Nothing is ever enough for Ash Spencer._ You made peace with this unfortunate fact of life long before you turned thirteen, long before you even had your first kiss.

Before it was you and Stella Baxter, it was you and Brian Armstrong. You lose him next.

You watch the brown-eyed boy who once kissed the taste of sweet Georgia peaches out of your mouth free-fall from over 30,000 feet and hit the ground_ at speed_ — he was dead the second he hit the ground. At first, you don't know that it's Brain. That realization comes approximately seven minutes later, when all the other Navy SEALs are pulling off their helmets … you glanced around, frantic, for Brian. You never find him.

Brian Armstrong is dead, and the best part of you dies with him. You and Master Chief Adam Seaver travel to Brian's hometown to inform his family of his untimely death. As it turns out, Brian had about as much family as you did.

Your name is Clay Spencer, and you try your very hardest to harden your heart. It doesn't work. You're a hero, through and through, and you will fight tooth and nail to save everyone, to reach for every single last outstretched hand. You will save this world from itself or you'll die trying.

Your soul is a lighthouse. The blue of your eyes? A beacon. _The love in your heart runneth over, child._

Sometimes, you wish that you could be as heartless as Ash Spencer. It would hurt less.

Master Chief Adam Seaver, the Chief who trained you in Green Team, the man whom you now have the privilege of calling _brother_, throws himself into the arms of a suicide bomber to save your life. He dies, too. In a blaze of goddamn glory. When all is said and done, you decide that's how you want to die, too — _in a blaze of goddamn glory._

(Careful what you wish for, kid.)

The next person to abandon you is Stella. You don't lose her to tragedy, thank God. She's in Virginia Beach, alive and unharmed, living her dreams, finding happiness and forging a home in a man who doesn't kick down doors and cut throats for a living. You find solace in this. _Joy._ Stella Baxter deserves every good and bright thing that this big, scary world has to offer. (Everything that you can't give her.) You wanted to marry her. You would have, too, if she hadn't left you high and dry.

You're not angry. You don't blame Stella. Not every woman can be Naima Perry.

The last thing that you lose in this life is Bravo Team.

"... five guys around me, one beating heart." That's what you said to Jason Hayes, and you meant it with every breath and beat of your heart. Jason, Sonny, Ray, Trent, and Brock: your brothers, your family, your reason for dragging your sorry ass out of bed every morning. Eric, Lisa, and Mandy were your family too. You loved them just as deeply, just as fiercely. You'd happily give your life for any one of them. All they have to do is ask.

You've never experienced this surplus of love before. Finally, you have a family to call your own.

Your name is Clay Spencer, and you're lying on your back on a dirty, blood-soaked street in the middle of the Philippines, looking dazedly up at the stars. (It's okay.) The pain that you're in steals your breath away. Your skin is burning hot from the heat of the blast—it feels like acid is eating away at your flesh, and something is embedded so deeply in your thigh that you can feel it scraping against one of your bones. Your vision is blurry and dim. You're completely deaf. The acrid smell of blood (your own) and smoke and singed flesh is so overwhelming that it threatens to choke you. (It's still okay.)

It's okay because you saved the lives of six innocent men, women, and children. It's okay because you reunited a frightened little boy with his brother. Eight less families will grieve tonight.

_Bravo Team._ They're all around you now. Touching you, talking to you—you don't know how to convey that you can't hear them. You can't hear anything. Sonny is the most frantic of them all, stroking your hair and touching your face, barking at Trent Sawyer while Jason flags down an ambulance.

This is where you lose Bravo Team. This is where the hurt in your heart far exceeds the hurt ravaging your mangled body.

Your name is Clay Spencer, and you die in Petty Officer Sonny Quinn's arms.

It's still okay. Your consciousness fights through the haze of agony and fear to be present with your team—_just one last time_—and though your mouth is full of blood you manage a wobbly little smile, and you die loved and in the many, many arms of your brothers.

Before you can once again hear the sweet hymn of Brian Armstrong's laughter, and before you feel Master Chief Adam Seaver clap you on the shoulder, a final thought passes through your mind:

_Hey, I'm finally gonna' get to meet Nate. Maybe he'll help me haunt Sonny._

* * *

welp! i was really in the mood to hurt my own feelings tonight. it is currently 2:00 A.M. so ... there are probably a buttload of errors in this (i only proofreaded once) but! yee. also, would anyone be interested in a short sequel? [eyes emoji]


	2. Alternate Ending

_ALTERNATE ENDING. _for those who prefer a happy ending. thank you for all the lovely reviews, babes. they make my day. :') [heart emoji.]

* * *

Consciousness comes back to you slowly. You regain your hearing, first. Sound is heavily muffled, and there's a sharp, relentless ringing in both of your ears, but you can hear—a dam breaks inside of you and relief rushes through every part of your being. _You can hear. _

Around you, there are a plethora of voices. You can't quite make out what the voices are saying, but you know who they belong to. Each and every one of them. Sonny. Ray. Jason. Trent. Brock. Even Lieutenant Commander Blackburn.

Your body is mangled, but your heart is whole and full. They're all there, right beside you.

Sight comes next. Your eyelids feel heavier than the C-17, but you manage to find the strength within yourself to force them open. You're greeted by a bright, stark white ceiling and a gaggle of blurry but familiar faces. They haven't noticed that you're waking yet. You blink in quick succession, willing your sensitive eyes to adjust to the sudden abundance of light.

Your name is Clay Spencer and you're lucky to be alive.

There isn't a single part of your body that doesn't hurt: A heavy, bone-deep soreness has settled into every atom of your being, and you've got a headache that toes the line of a migraine, and your aching ears won't stop ringing, and you feel clusters of stitches pulling your skin uncomfortably taught in four different places, and speaking seems outside the realm of possibility—

But you can't stop smiling. You don't think that you've ever felt more grateful, nor more humble, in your entire life.

_Your life._ It's hard to believe that you still possess it.

Sonny is holding your hand. He held it while you were dying in the street, too—you don't remember much after the initial blast, but you do remember that. You remember your brothers.

You squeeze Sonny's hand. It's a weak squeeze, even you know that, but it's a squeeze nevertheless.

Sonny snaps his head to the side and looks at you with big, glassy eyes. You look back at him, still smiling.

"Clay?" He asks, voice soft. "Hey, hey. You up, buddy?"

This gets the attention of everyone else. Suddenly, all eyes are on you. You nod, just able to make out what Sonny is asking. It seems as though your hearing is beginning to come back, slowly but surely.

Jason says something to Trent, who quickly jogs out of the room (to get the doctor, you suspect), before hurrying to your side. He brushes your sweat-damp hair out of your face, and Eric Blackburn hovers next to him like a ruffled mama bird.

"Hey, Spence'," Jason asks. He looks at you, awestruck. "How you feeling'? You good?"

You touch your throat, trying to convey that you can't speak. Well… _you might_ be able to speak, but you're too anxious to try out your vocal chords—you're still in a world of pain and you aren't eager to add anymore discomfort to your ravaged body. Jason nods at you in acknowledgment.

"Trent is gettin' the doc. You're gonna' be just fine, okay? We got you. We got you."

Your eyes are getting damp. You want to cry. Not because of the pain, or because the smell of your own dead, burning skin is still hot in your nose, but because Sonny Quinn is holding your hand still and Jason Hayes is saying _'We got you, we got you,'_ and Mandy Ellis is rolling new socks on your bare feet because _"I don't want you catching your death in here from the flu, Clay. Keep these on, okay? Keep warm."_

So, this is what family is. This is what the love and affection that you've ached for your entire life feels like. You revel in it.

Trent returns with the doctor, who shoots a sharp glare at Brock—who still has Cerberus with him—before walking briskly to your bedside to begin checking your vitals. Bravo Teams stays with you. So does Eric. So does Mandy. The only person missing is Lisa and her to-die-for Hot Banana-Cinnamon Chocolate (with tiny marshmallows, naturally). You're eager to see her again, once she's done kicking ass and taking names at OCS.

"Don't you ever scare me like that again, you little shit." Eric Blackburn says, and you beam at him. "It's hard enough to wrangle this lot as it is. Jason already has me popping Xanax."

You laugh. It doesn't hurt all.


	3. Sequel to Chapter 1

**A/N: **I've had this sequel to the first chapter of this story sitting in my documents for awhile now, half done. So, I figured I'd finish it up, add a familiar face, and upload it. It's Nate's POV, and just a little bit of closure. This will be the last update of this... odd, but hopeful little story. Hope you guys have enjoyed! Let me know your finals thoughts. ( love u angels. )

* * *

It's an idyllic morning; sunlit and breezy, sky as bright and blue as the surface of the pacific, air warm with the promise of spring—it shouldn't feel nearly as melancholic as it does.

But Clay is sitting on his gravestone again, watching Jason Hayes lay a bouquet of red, white, and blue flowers on his grave. Next to him is his granddaughter, Alana. She picks a handful of dandelions and grass with her chubby little baby hands and sets them next to the bouquet. Jason, sitting cross-legged in the grass, pulls Alana into his lap and presses a kiss to the sandy blonde of her hair.

Your name is Nate Massey, and your friend Clay Spencer has been dead for three years now. Three years, and he's still torturing himself; You told him long ago that visiting the living that you left behind isn't worth the pain.

—but, predictably, Clay didn't listen. He never does.

(In some ways, he is Adam Seaver made over.)

"Blue," Alana says, pointing to the bouquet. "Blue!"

Jason nods. "Yup, those flowers are blue. What about the other ones? What other colors do you see?"

"Red!" She shouts. "And. . . white!"

"Good job, Ms. Lana," Jason says, smiling. "Blue, red, and white. Just like the flag. That's why we leave them here for Uncle Clay, because he used to be on Bravo Team with granddad. He helped protect all those colors. _Red. White. Blue. _He helped protect everyone."

"Red. White. Blue." Alana parrots.

Warmth floods your chest. You haven't spied on Jason Hayes in years (it hurts too much, makes you feel far more hollow than you actually are; he's your brother still, and your only son's godfather, and you miss him dearly), but it's both hilarious and heartwarming to hear him refer to himself as _granddad. _Surreal, too. . . Surreal that little Emma has grown into a young woman, has married a kindhearted man and had a beautiful baby all her own.

It's reassuring, in a macabre sort of way, to see the world has moved on in your absence.

Alana looks at the headstone curiously. She doesn't understand, of course. She's only eighteen months old. That young, she has no concept of death or dying. No fear of anything greater than the tall slide at the park or a vaccination at the doctor's office. She has no concept of Clay, either—and really, that's what hurts the most here. You watch Clay watch Jason and Alana and you know, _you know,_ that Clay is yearning to hold her, to reach out and feel her round little cheek beneath the pad of his thumb.

You walk over to Clay and give his shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze.

"She's looks more and more like her mama every day," He says to you, voice unsteady. "And her grandpa, God help her._ Those eyes._"

You smile. "Yeah, she's a little doll. I can't believe Emma's all grown up now. I still remember her losing a tooth in my garage."

Clay nods. "I know. I can't believe it either. It's still hard to believe any of this, sometimes."

"You'll get used to it," You say, because you're confident that he will, adaptable frogman that he is. It just takes time. "Just give it another year or so. That. . . weird, sleepy dreamy feeling will start getting less frequent. Pretty soon, it'll be gone for good. You'll feel normal again."

"And by normal you mean. . . alive?" Clay asks. The skepticism in his voice isn't lost on you, but you sympathize. Even after a couple of years, death and being dead is still a lot to take in.

"Half the time I forget that I'm dead." You answer honestly.

Silence stretches out between the two of you. You stand together for a few minutes more, watching Jason and little Alana pay their respects at Clay's grave. You're not going to let Clay wallow though, so once those few minutes are up you tell him, "It's time to go, Clay. No more martyrdom, okay?"

"I just, I feel like I'm missing out on everything."

"That's exactly why we need to go back. You are missing things, Clay. We both are, because we're dead. _We died. _There's no getting this life back, but we've got our Heaven, okay? So lets get back to it. Do you really want to leave Swanny alone with Adam and Brian? It's bad enough waking up to Brian in _downward dog. . . _the last thing I need to see is Brett in it too."

Clay laughs, and you find yourself chuckling along, too. "You've got a point, brother. You've got a point."

"So, you ready to go home? Adam's grilling out."

Clay jumps down from his gravestone and smiles a decidedly bittersweet smile. "Yeah, man. Let's go home."

You both turn and wave goodbye to Jason and Alana. Neither Jason nor Alana can see you, of course, but that isn't the point. It's a tidbit of much needed closure. You know that it's hard to let go of the living. . . A hell of a lot harder than dying. _Dying is the easy part._

Your name is Nate Massey, and you and Clay Spencer walk back into the light and go home.

(When you and Clay return, the scent of burgers and sweet potato fries linger in the air; Adam is grilling, Swanny's laughing, and Brian has a glass of lemonade in one hand and a yoga mat tucked under his arm. You glance at Clay and you find him smiling. You smile, too. Because, even in death, you've found your home in the SEAL Teams.

You watch as Clay joins the others and steals Brian's lemonade directly from his hand. Swanny claps him on the back, says "Good to see you, Clay," while Brian tries to snatch it back, causing a spill. You take a moment to be grateful that those you love who still walk the earth are living _still_, enjoying their lives in your unfortunate absence, and then you take a moment more to be grateful for the joy and peace that you and your fellow SEALs have found in death.

Seems like Ray Perry was right, after all.)

**—_after the night, the morning comes._**


End file.
